the swoop! or how clarence saved england by p. g. wodehouse

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Title: The Swoop! or How Clarence Saved EnglandA Tale of the Great Invasion

Author: P. G. Wodehouse

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THE SWOOP!

or

How Clarence Saved England

_A Tale of the Great Invasion_

by P. G. Wodehouse

1909

PREFACE

It may be thought by some that in the pages which follow I havepaintedin too lurid colours the horrors of a foreign invasion of England.Realism in art, it may be argued, can be carried too far. I prefer tothink that the majority of my readers will acquit me of a desire to beunduly sensational. It is necessary that England should be roused to asense of her peril, and only by setting down without flinching theprobable results of an invasion can this be done. This story, I may

mention, has been written and published purely from a feeling ofpatriotism and duty. Mr. Alston Rivers' sensitive soul will be jarredto its foundations if it is a financial success. So will mine. But in

atime of national danger we feel that the risk must be taken. After

all,at the worst, it is a small sacrifice to make for our country.

P. G. WODEHOUSE.

_The Bomb-Proof Shelter,_ _London, W._

Part One

Chapter 1

AN ENGLISH BOY'S HOME

_August the First, 19--_


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Clarence Chugwater looked around him with a frown, and gritted histeeth.

"England--my England!" he moaned.

Clarence was a sturdy lad of some fourteen summers. He was neatly, but

not gaudily, dressed in a flat-brimmed hat, a coloured handkerchief, aflannel shirt, a bunch of ribbons, a haversack, football shorts, brownboots, a whistle, and a hockey-stick. He was, in fact, one of GeneralBaden-Powell's Boy Scouts.

Scan him closely. Do not dismiss him with a passing glance; for youarelooking at the Boy of Destiny, at Clarence MacAndrew Chugwater, whosaved England.

To-day those features are familiar to all. Everyone has seen theChugwater Column in Aldwych, the equestrian statue in Chugwater Road(formerly Piccadilly), and the picture-postcards in the stationers'

windows. That bulging forehead, distended with useful information;thatmassive chin; those eyes, gleaming behind their spectacles; that_tout ensemble_; that _je ne sais quoi_.

In a word, Clarence!

He could do everything that the Boy Scout must learn to do. He couldlow like a bull. He could gurgle like a wood-pigeon. He could imitatethe cry of the turnip in order to deceive rabbits. He could smile and

whistle simultaneously in accordance with Rule 8 (and only those whohave tried this know how difficult it is). He could spoor, fell trees,tell the character from the boot-sole, and fling the squaler. He didall these things well, but what he was really best at was flinging thesqualer.

* * * * *

Clarence, on this sultry August afternoon, was tensely occupiedtracking the family cat across the dining-room carpet by itsfoot-prints. Glancing up for a moment, he caught sight of the other

members of the family.

"England, my England!" he moaned.

It was indeed a sight to extract tears of blood from any Boy Scout.Thetable had been moved back against the wall, and in the cleared space

Mr. Chugwater, whose duty it was to have set an example to hischildren, was playing diabolo. Beside him, engrossed in cup-and-ball,was his wife. Reggie Chugwater, the eldest son, the heir, the hope ofthe house, was reading the cricket news in an early edition of theevening paper. Horace, his brother, was playing pop-in-taw with hissister Grace and Grace's _fiance_, Ralph Peabody. Alice, the otherMiss Chugwater, was mending a Badminton racquet.

Not a single member of that family was practising with the rifle, ordrilling, or learning to make bandages.


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Clarence groaned.

"If you can't play without snorting like that, my boy," said Mr.Chugwater, a little irritably, "you must find some other game. You

mademe jump just as I was going to beat my record."

"Talking of records," said Reggie, "Fry's on his way to his eighthsuccessive century. If he goes on like this, Lancashire will win thechampionship."

"I thought he was playing for Somerset," said Horace.

"That was a fortnight ago. You ought to keep up to date in animportantsubject like cricket."

Once more Clarence snorted bitterly.

"I'm sure you ought not to be down on the floor, Clarence," said Mr.Chugwater anxiously. "It is so draughty, and you have evidently got anasty cold. _Must_ you lie on the floor?"

"I am spooring," said Clarence with simple dignity.

"But I'm sure you can spoor better sitting on a chair with a nicebook."

"_I_ think the kid's sickening for something," put in Horacecritically. "He's deuced roopy. What's up, Clarry?"

"I was thinking," said Clarence, "of my country--of England."

"What's the matter with England?"

"_She's_ all right," murmured Ralph Peabody.

"My fallen country!" sighed Clarence, a not unmanly tear bedewing theglasses of his spectacles. "My fallen, stricken country!"

"That kid," said Reggie, laying down his paper, "is talking rightthrough his hat. My dear old son, are you aware that England has neverbeen so strong all round as she is now? Do you _ever_ read thepapers? Don't you know that we've got the Ashes and the GolfChampionship, and the Wibbley-wob Championship, and the Spiropole,Spillikins, Puff-Feather, and Animal Grab Championships? Has it come

to

your notice that our croquet pair beat America last Thursday by eighthoops? Did you happen to hear that we won the Hop-skip-and-jump at thelast Olympic Games? You've been out in the woods, old sport."

Clarence's heart was too full for words. He rose in silence, andquitted the room.

"Got the pip or something!" said Reggie. "Rum kid! I say, Hirst'sbowling well! Five for twenty-three so far!"


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Clarence wandered moodily out of the house. The Chugwaters lived in adesirable villa residence, which Mr. Chugwater had built in Essex. It

was a typical Englishman's Home. Its name was Nasturtium Villa.

As Clarence walked down the road, the excited voice of a newspaper-boycame to him. Presently the boy turned the corner, shouting, "Ker-lapseof Surrey! Sensational bowling at the Oval!"

He stopped on seeing Clarence.

"Paper, General?"

Clarence shook his head. Then he uttered a startled exclamation, forhis eye had fallen on the poster.

It ran as follows:--

SURREYDOINGBADLYGERMAN ARMY LANDS IN ENGLAND

Chapter 2

THE INVADERS

Clarence flung the boy a halfpenny, tore a paper from his grasp, andscanned it eagerly. There was nothing to interest him in the body ofthe journal, but he found what he was looking for in the stop-pressspace. "Stop press news," said the paper. "Fry not out, 104. Surrey

147for 8. A German army landed in Essex this afternoon. LoamshireHandicap: Spring Chicken, 1; Salome, 2; Yip-i-addy, 3. Seven ran."

Essex! Then at any moment the foe might be at their doors; more,insidetheir doors. With a passionate cry, Clarence tore back to the house.

He entered the dining-room with the speed of a highly-trained Marathonwinner, just in time once more to prevent Mr. Chugwater lowering hisrecord.

"The Germans!" shouted Clarence. "We are invaded!"

This time Mr. Chugwater was really annoyed.

"If I have told you once about your detestable habit of shouting inthehouse, Clarence, I have told you a hundred times. If you cannot be aBoy Scout quietly, you must stop being one altogether. I had got up tosix that time."

"But, father----"


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The prince bowed. So did his aide-de-camp.

"The fact is, Mr. Jugwater," resumed the prince, "we are not here on aholiday."

"Quite so, quite so. Business before pleasure."

The prince pulled at his moustache. So did his aide-de-camp, whoseemedto be a man of but little initiative and conversational resource.

"We are invaders."

"Not at all, not at all," protested Mr. Chugwater.

"I must warn you that you will resist at your peril. You wear nouniform--"

"Wouldn't dream of such a thing. Except at the lodge, of course."

"You will be sorely tempted, no doubt. Do not think that I do notappreciate your feelings. This is an Englishman's Home."

Mr. Chugwater tapped him confidentially on the knee.

"And an uncommonly snug little place, too," he said. "Now, if you willforgive me for talking business, you, I gather, propose making somestay in this country."

The prince laughed shortly. So did his aide-de-camp. "Exactly,"continued Mr. Chugwater, "exactly. Then you will want some

_pied-a-terre_, if you follow me. I shall be delighted to let youthis house on remarkably easy terms for as long as you please. Justcome along into my study for a moment. We can talk it over quietlythere. You see, dealing direct with me, you would escape the

middleman's charges, and--"

Gently but firmly he edged the prince out of the room and down thepassage.

The aide-de-camp continued to sit staring woodenly at the carpet.Reggie closed quietly in on him.

"Excuse me," he said; "talking shop and all that. But I'm an agent forthe Come One Come All Accident and Life Assurance Office. You haveheard of it probably? We can offer you really exceptional terms. You

must not miss a chance of this sort. Now here's a prospectus--"

Horace sidled forward.

"I don't know if you happen to be a cyclist, Captain--er--Graf; but ifyou'd like a practically new motorbike, only been used since lastNovember, I can let you--"

There was a swish of skirts as Grace and Alice advanced on thevisitor.

"I'm sure," said Grace winningly, "that you're fond of the theatre,


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Captain Poppenheim. We are getting up a performance of 'Ici on parleFrancais,' in aid of the fund for Supplying Square Meals to Old-AgePensioners. Such a deserving object, you know. Now, how many tickets

will you take?"

"You can sell them to your friends, you know," added Mrs. Chugwater.

The aide-de-camp gulped convulsively.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later two penniless men groped their way, dazed, to thegarden gate.

"At last," said Prince Otto brokenly, for it was he, "at last I beginto realise the horrors of an invasion--for the invaders."

And together the two men staggered on.

Chapter 3

ENGLAND'S PERIL

When the papers arrived next morning, it was seen that the situationwas even worse than had at first been suspected. Not only had theGermans effected a landing in Essex, but, in addition, no fewer thaneight other hostile armies had, by some remarkable coincidence, hit onthat identical moment for launching their long-prepared blow.

England was not merely beneath the heel of the invader. It was beneaththe heels of nine invaders.

There was barely standing-room.

Full details were given in the Press. It seemed that while Germany waslanding in Essex, a strong force of Russians, under the Grand DukeVodkakoff, had occupied Yarmouth. Simultaneously the Mad Mullah hadcaptured Portsmouth; while the Swiss navy had bombarded Lyme Regis,

andlanded troops immediately to westward of the bathing-machines. Atprecisely the same moment China, at last awakened, had swooped downupon that picturesque little Welsh watering-place, Lllgxtplll, and,despite desperate resistance on the part of an excursion of Evanses

and

Joneses from Cardiff, had obtained a secure foothold. While thesethings were happening in Wales, the army of Monaco had descended onAuchtermuchty, on the Firth of Clyde. Within two minutes of thisdisaster, by Greenwich time, a boisterous band of Young Turks hadseized Scarborough. And, at Brighton and Margate respectively, smallbut determined armies, the one of Moroccan brigands, under Raisuli,

theother of dark-skinned warriors from the distant isle of Bollygolla,

hadmade good their footing.


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Such a state of affairs, disturbing enough in itself, was renderedstill more disquieting by the fact that, except for the Boy Scouts,England's military strength at this time was practically nil.

The abolition of the regular army had been the first step. Severalcauses had contributed to this. In the first place, the Socialists had

condemned the army system as unsocial. Privates, they pointed out,were

forbidden to hob-nob with colonels, though the difference in theirpositions was due to a mere accident of birth. They demanded that

everyman in the army should be a general. Comrade Quelch, in an eloquentspeech at Newington Butts, had pointed, amidst enthusiasm, to therepublics of South America, where the system worked admirably.

Scotland, too, disapproved of the army, because it was professional.Mr. Smith wrote several trenchant letters to Mr. C. J. B. Marriott onthe subject.

So the army was abolished, and the land defence of the countryentrusted entirely to the Territorials, the Legion of Frontiersmen,

andthe Boy Scouts.

But first the Territorials dropped out. The strain of being referredtoon the music-hall stage as Teddy-boys was too much for them.

Then the Frontiersmen were disbanded. They had promised well at thestart, but they had never been themselves since La Milo had beenattacked by the Manchester Watch Committee. It had taken all the heartout of them.

So that in the end England's defenders were narrowed down to theBoy Scouts, of whom Clarence Chugwater was the pride, and a largecivilian population, prepared, at any moment, to turn out for theircountry's sake and wave flags. A certain section of these, too, couldsing patriotic songs.

* * * * *

It was inevitable, in the height of the Silly Season, that such atopicas the simultaneous invasion of Great Britain by nine foreign powersshould be seized upon by the press. Countless letters poured into theoffices of the London daily papers every morning. Space forbids morethan the gist of a few of these.

Miss Charlesworth wrote:--"In this crisis I see no alternative. Ishalldisappear."

Mr. Horatio Bottomley, in _John Bull_, said that there was somevery dirty and underhand work going on, and that the secret history ofthe invasion would be published shortly. He himself, however,

preferred


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any invader, even the King of Bollygolla, to some K.C.'s he couldname,though he was fond of dear old Muir. He wanted to know why InspectorDrew had retired.

The _Daily Express_, in a thoughtful leader, said that Free Tradeevidently meant invaders for all.

Mr. Herbert Gladstone, writing to the _Times_, pointed out that hehad let so many undesirable aliens into the country that he did not

seethat a few more made much difference.

Mr. George R. Sims made eighteen puns on the names of the invadinggenerals in the course of one number of "Mustard and Cress."

Mr. H. G. Pelissier urged the public to look on the bright side. Therewas a sun still shining in the sky. Besides, who knew that someforeignmarksman might not pot the censor?

Mr. Robert FitzSimmons offered to take on any of the invadinggenerals,or all of them, and if he didn't beat them it would only be because

thereferee had a wife and seven small children and had asked him as apersonal favour to let himself be knocked out. He had lost severalfights that way.

The directors of the Crystal Palace wrote a circular letter to theshareholders, pointing out that there was a good time coming. With

thisaddition to the public, the Palace stood a sporting chance of once

morefinding itself full.

Judge Willis asked: "What is an invasion?"

Signor Scotti cabled anxiously from America (prepaid): "StandsScotlandwhere it did?"

Mr. Lewis Waller wrote heroically: "How many of them are there? I amusually good for about half a dozen. Are they assassins? I can tackleany number of assassins."

Mr. Seymour Hicks said he hoped they would not hurt George Edwardes.

Mr. George Edwardes said that if they injured Seymour Hicks in any wayhe would never smile again.

A writer in _Answers_ pointed out that, if all the invaders in thecountry were piled in a heap, they would reach some of the way to the

moon.

Far-seeing men took a gloomy view of the situation. They laid stressonthe fact that this counter-attraction was bound to hit first-class


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cricket hard. For some years gates had shown a tendency to fall off,owing to the growing popularity of golf, tennis, and other games. Thedesire to see the invaders as they marched through the country mustdraw away thousands who otherwise would have paid their sixpences atthe turnstiles. It was suggested that representations should be made

tothe invading generals with a view to inducing them to make a small

charge to sightseers.

In sporting circles the chief interest centered on the race to London.The papers showed the positions of the various armies each morning intheir Runners and Betting columns; six to four on the Germans wasfreely offered, but found no takers.

Considerable interest was displayed in the probable behaviour of thenine armies when they met. The situation was a curious outcome of the

modern custom of striking a deadly blow before actually declaring war.Until the moment when the enemy were at her doors, England had

imaginedthat she was on terms of the most satisfactory friendship with herneighbours. The foe had taken full advantage of this, and also of thefact that, owing to a fit of absent-mindedness on the part of theGovernment, England had no ships afloat which were not entirelyobsolete. Interviewed on the subject by representatives of the dailypapers, the Government handsomely admitted that it was perhaps insome ways a silly thing to have done; but, they urged, you could notthink of everything. Besides, they were on the point of laying down a

_Dreadnought_, which would be ready in a very few years. Meanwhile,the best thing the public could do was to sleep quietly in their beds.It was Fisher's tip; and Fisher was a smart man.

And all the while the Invaders' Marathon continued.

Who would be the first to reach London?

Chapter 5

THE GERMANS REACH LONDON

The Germans had got off smartly from the mark and were fullyjustifyingthe long odds laid upon them. That master-strategist, Prince Otto ofSaxe-Pfennig, realising that if he wished to reach the Metropolisquickly he must not go by train, had resolved almost at once to walk.

Though hampered considerably by crowds of rustics who gathered,gaping,at every point in the line of march, he had made good progress. TheGerman troops had strict orders to reply to no questions, with theresult that little time was lost in idle chatter, and in a couple ofdays it was seen that the army of the Fatherland was bound, barringaccidents, to win comfortably.

The progress of the other forces was slower. The Chinese especiallyhad undergone great privations, having lost their way near


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He stood awhile in meditation. So did Captain von Poppenheim. Hekickeda pebble. So did Captain von Poppenheim--only a smaller pebble.Discipline is very strict in the German army.

"Poppenheim."

"Sir?"

"Any signs of our--er--competitors?"

"Yes, sir; the Russians are coming up on the left flank, sir. They'llbe here in a few hours. Raisuli has been arrested at Purley forstealing chickens. The army of Bollygolla is about ten miles out. Nonews of the field yet, sir."

The Prince brooded. Then he spoke, unbosoming himself more freely thanwas his wont in conversation with his staff.

"Between you and me, Pop," he cried impulsively, "I'm dashed sorry weever started this dashed silly invading business. We thought ourselvesdashed smart, working in the dark, and giving no sign till the greatpounce, and all that sort of dashed nonsense. Seems to me we've simplydashed well landed ourselves in the dashed soup."

Captain von Poppenheim saluted in sympathetic silence. He and theprince had been old chums at college. A life-long friendship existedbetween them. He would have liked to have expressed adhesion verballyto his superior officer's remarks. The words "I don't think" trembledon his tongue. But the iron discipline of the German Army gagged him.He saluted again and clicked his heels.

The Prince recovered himself with a strong effort.

"You say the Russians will be here shortly?" he said.

"In a few hours, sir."

"And the men really wish to bombard London?"

"It would be a treat to them, sir."

"Well, well, I suppose if we don't do it, somebody else will. And wegot here first."

"Yes, sir."

"Then--"

An orderly hurried up and saluted.

"Telegram, sir."

Absently the Prince opened it. Then his eyes lit up.

"Gotterdammerung!" he said. "I never thought of that. 'Smash up Londonand provide work for unemployed mending it.--GRAYSON,'" he read."Poppenheim."


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beautifying London. The Albert Hall, struck by a merciful shell, hadcome down with a run, and was now a heap of picturesque ruins;Whitefield's Tabernacle was a charred mass; and the burning of theRoyal Academy proved a great comfort to all. At a mass meeting inTrafalgar Square a hearty vote of thanks was passed, with acclamation,to Prince Otto.

But if Londoners rejoiced, the invaders were very far from doing so.The complicated state of foreign politics made it imperative that

thereshould be no friction between the Powers. Yet here a great number ofthem were in perhaps as embarrassing a position as ever diplomatists

were called upon to unravel. When nine dogs are assembled round onebone, it is rarely on the bone alone that teeth-marks are found at theclose of the proceedings.

Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig set himself resolutely to grapple with theproblem. His chance of grappling successfully with it was not improvedby the stream of telegrams which arrived daily from his ImperialMaster, demanding to know whether he had yet subjugated the country,and if not, why not. He had replied guardedly, stating the

difficultieswhich lay in his way, and had received the following: "At once mailedfist display. On Get or out Get.--WILHELM."

It was then that the distracted prince saw that steps must be taken atonce.

Carefully-worded letters were despatched by District Messenger boys tothe other generals. Towards nightfall the replies began to come in,and, having read them, the Prince saw that this business could never

besettled without a personal interview. Many of the replies wereabsolutely incoherent.

Raisuli, apologising for delay on the ground that he had been away inthe Isle of Dogs cracking a crib, wrote suggesting that the Germans

andMoroccans should combine with a view to playing the Confidence Trick

onthe Swiss general, who seemed a simple sort of chap. "Reminds me ofdear old Maclean," wrote Raisuli. "There is money in this. Will youcome in? Wire in the morning."

The general of the Monaco forces thought the best way would be tosettle the thing by means of a game of chance of the odd-man-out

class.He knew a splendid game called Slippery Sam. He could teach them the

rules in half a minute.

The reply of Prince Ping Pong Pang of China was probably brilliant andscholarly, but it was expressed in Chinese characters of the Mingperiod, which Prince Otto did not understand; and even if he had it

would have done him no good, for he tried to read it from the topdownwards instead of from the bottom up.

The Young Turks, as might have been expected, wrote in their customaryflippant, cheeky style. They were full of mischief, as usual. The body


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of the letter, scrawled in a round, schoolboy hand, dealt principallywith the details of the booby-trap which the general had successfullylaid for his head of staff. "He was frightfully shirty," concluded thenote jubilantly.

From the Bollygolla camp the messenger-boy returned without a scalp,and with a verbal message to the effect that the King could neither

read nor write.

Grand Duke Vodkakoff, from the Russian lines, replied in his smooth,cynical, Russian way:--"You appear anxious, my dear prince, to scratchthe other entrants. May I beg you to remember what happens when youscratch a Russian?"

As for the Mad Mullah's reply, it was simply pure delirium. Thejourneyfrom Somaliland, and his meeting with his friend Mr. Dillon, appearedto have had the worse effects on his sanity. He opened with thestatement that he was a tea-pot: and that was the only really coherentremark he made.

Prince Otto placed a hand wearily on his throbbing brow.

"We must have a conference," he said. "It is the only way."

Next day eight invitations to dinner went out from the German camp.

* * * * *

It would be idle to say that the dinner, as a dinner, was a completesuccess. Half-way through the Swiss general missed his diamondsolitaire, and cold glances were cast at Raisuli, who sat on hisimmediate left. Then the King of Bollygolla's table-manners werefrankly inelegant. When he wanted a thing, he grabbed for it. And heseemed to want nearly everything. Nor was the behaviour of the leaderof the Young Turks all that could be desired. There had been some talkof only allowing him to come down to dessert; but he had squashed in,as he briefly put it, and it would be paltering with the truth to saythat he had not had far more champagne than was good for him. Also,

thegeneral of Monaco had brought a pack of cards with him, and wasspoiling the harmony by trying to induce Prince Ping Pong Pang to findthe lady. And the brainless laugh of the Mad Mullah was very trying.

Altogether Prince Otto was glad when the cloth was removed, and thewaiters left the company to smoke and talk business.

Anyone who has had anything to do with the higher diplomacy is aware

that diplomatic language stands in a class by itself. It is a languagespecially designed to deceive the chance listener.

Thus when Prince Otto, turning to Grand Duke Vodkakoff, said quietly,"I hear the crops are coming on nicely down Kent way," the habitualfrequenter of diplomatic circles would have understood, as did theGrand Duke, that what he really meant was, "Now about this business.What do you propose to do?"

The company, with the exception of the representative of the Young


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Turks, who was drinking _creme de menthe_ out of a tumbler, theMullah and the King of Bollygolla bent forward, deeply interested, tocatch the Russian's reply. Much would depend on this.

Vodkakoff carelessly flicked the ash off his cigarette.

"So I hear," he said slowly. "But in Shropshire, they tell me, they

arehaving trouble with the mangel-wurzels."

The prince frowned at this typical piece of shifty Russian diplomacy.

"How is your Highness getting on with your Highness's roller-skating?"he enquired guardedly.

The Russian smiled a subtle smile.

"Poorly," he said, "poorly. The last time I tried the outside edge Ithought somebody had thrown the building at me."

Prince Otto flushed. He was a plain, blunt man, and he hated thisbeating about the bush.

"Why does a chicken cross the road?" he demanded, almost angrily.

The Russian raised his eyebrows, and smiled, but made no reply. Theprince, resolved to give him no chance of wriggling away from thepoint, pressed him hotly.

"Think of a number," he cried. "Double it. Add ten. Take away thenumber you first thought of. Divide it by three, and what is theresult?"

There was an awed silence. Surely the Russian, expert at evasion as hewas, could not parry so direct a challenge as this.

He threw away his cigarette and lit a cigar.

"I understand," he said, with a tinkle of defiance in his voice, "thatthe Suffragettes, as a last resource, propose to capture Mr. Asquithand sing the Suffragette Anthem to him."

A startled gasp ran round the table.

"Because the higher he flies, the fewer?" asked Prince Otto, withsinister calm.

"Because the higher he flies, the fewer," said the Russian smoothly,

but with the smoothness of a treacherous sea.

There was another gasp. The situation was becoming alarmingly tense.

"You are plain-spoken, your Highness," said Prince Otto slowly.

At this moment the tension was relieved by the Young Turk falling offhis chair with a crash on to the floor. Everyone jumped up startled.Raisuli took advantage of the confusion to pocket a silver ash-tray.


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The interruption had a good effect. Frowns relaxed. The wranglersbeganto see that they had allowed their feelings to run away with them. It

was with a conciliatory smile that Prince Otto, filling the GrandDuke's glass, observed:

"Trumper is perhaps the prettier bat, but I confess I admire Fry's

robust driving."

The Russian was won over. He extended his hand.

"Two down and three to play, and the red near the top corner pocket,"he said with that half-Oriental charm which he knew so well how toexhibit on occasion.

The two shook hands warmly.

And so it was settled, the Russian having, as we have seen, waived hisclaim to bombard London in his turn, there was no obstacle to apeaceful settlement. It was obvious that the superior forces of theGermans and Russians gave them, if they did but combine, the key to

thesituation. The decision they arrived at was, as set forth above, asfollows. After the fashion of the moment, the Russian and Germangenerals decided to draw the Colour Line. That meant that the troops

ofChina, Somaliland, Bollygolla, as well as Raisuli and the Young Turks,

were ruled out. They would be given a week in which to leave thecountry. Resistance would be useless. The combined forces of theGermans, Russians, Swiss, and Monacoans were overwhelming, especiallyas the Chinese had not recovered from their wanderings in Wales and

were far too footsore still to think of serious fighting.

When they had left, the remaining four Powers would continue theinvasion jointly.

* * * * *

Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig went to bed that night, comfortablyconscious of a good work well done. He saw his way now clear beforehim.

But he had made one miscalculation. He had not reckoned with ClarenceChugwater.

Part Two

Chapter 1

IN THE BOY SCOUTS' CAMP


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Night!

Night in Aldwych!

In the centre of that vast tract of unreclaimed prairie known toLondoners as the Aldwych Site there shone feebly, seeming almost to

emphasise the darkness and desolation of the scene, a single light.

It was the camp-fire of the Boy Scouts.

The night was raw and windy. A fine rain had been falling for somehours. The date of September the First. For just a month England hadbeen in the grip of the invaders. The coloured section of the hostileforce had either reached its home by now, or was well on its way. Thepublic had seen it go with a certain regret. Not since the visit of

theShah had such an attractive topic of conversation been afforded them.Several comic journalists had built up a reputation and a large priceper thousand words on the King of Bollygolla alone. Theatres hadbenefited by the index of a large, new, unsophisticated public. A

pieceat the Waldorf Theatre had run for a whole fortnight, and "The MerryWidow" had taken on a new lease of life. Selfridge's, abandoning itspolicy of caution, had advertised to the extent of a quarter of acolumn in two weekly papers.

Now the Young Turks were back at school in Constantinople, shufflingtheir feet and throwing ink pellets at one another; Raisuli, home

againin the old mountains, was working up the kidnapping business, which

hadfallen off sadly in his absence under the charge of an incompetent

_locum tenens_; and the Chinese, the Bollygollans, and the troopsof the Mad Mullah were enduring the miseries of sea-sickness out in

mid-ocean.

The Swiss army had also gone home, in order to be in time for thewinter hotel season. There only remained the Germans, the Russians,andthe troops of Monaco.

* * * * *

In the camp of the Boy Scouts a vast activity prevailed.

Few of London's millions realise how tremendous and far-reaching anassociation the Boy Scouts are. It will be news to the Man in the

Street to learn that, with the possible exception of the Black Hand,the Scouts are perhaps the most carefully-organised secret society inthe world.

Their ramifications extend through the length and breadth of England.The boys you see parading the streets with hockey-sticks are but asmall section, the aristocrats of the Society. Every boy in England,and many a man, is in the pay of the association. Their funds arepractically unlimited. By the oath of initiation which he takes onjoining, every boy is compelled to pay into the common coffers a


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percentage of his pocket-money or his salary. When you drop his weeklythree and sixpence into the hand of your office-boy on Saturday,possibly you fancy he takes it home to mother. He doesn't. He spendtwo-and-six on Woodbines. The other shilling goes into the treasury ofthe Boy Scouts. When you visit your nephew at Eton, and tip him fivepounds or whatever it is, does he spend it at the sock-shop?

Apparently, yes. In reality, a quarter reaches the common fund.

Take another case, to show the Boy Scouts' power. You are a Citymerchant, and, arriving at the office one morning in a bad temper, youproceed to cure yourself by taking it out of the office-boy. He saysnothing, apparently does nothing. But that evening, as you are goinghome in the Tube, a burly working-man treads heavily on your goutyfoot. In Ladbroke Grove a passing hansom splashes you with mud.Reaching home, you find that the cat has been at the cold chicken andthe butler has given notice. You do not connect these things, but theyare all alike the results of your unjust behaviour to your office-boyin the morning. Or, meeting a ragged little matchseller, you pat hishead and give him six-pence. Next day an anonymous present of

champagnearrives at your address.

Terrible in their wrath, the Boy Scouts never forget kindness.

* * * * *

The whistle of a Striped Iguanodon sounded softly in the darkness. Thesentry, who was pacing to and fro before the camp-fire, halted, andpeered into the night. As he peered, he uttered the plaintive note of

azebra calling to its mate.

A voice from the darkness said, "Een gonyama-gonyama."

"Invooboo," replied the sentry argumentatively "Yah bo! Yah bo!Invooboo."

An indistinct figure moved forward.

"Who goes there?"

"A friend."

"Advance, friend, and give the countersign."

"Remember Mafeking, and death to Injuns."

"Pass friend! All's well."

The figure walked on into the firelight. The sentry started; thensaluted and stood to attention. On his face was a worshipping look ofadmiration and awe, such as some young soldier of the Grande Armee

might have worn on seeing Napoleon; for the newcomer was ClarenceChugwater.

"Your name?" said Clarence, eyeing the sturdy young warrior.

"Private William Buggins, sir."


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"You watch well, Private Buggins. England has need of such as you."

He pinched the young Scout's ear tolerantly. The sentry flushed withpleasure.

"My orders have been carried out?" said Clarence.

"Yes, sir. The patrols are all here."

"Enumerate them."

"The Chinchilla Kittens, the Bongos, the Zebras, the Iguanodons, theWelsh Rabbits, the Snapping Turtles, and a half-patrol of the 33rdLondon Gazekas, sir."

Clarence nodded.

"'Tis well," he said. "What are they doing?"

"Some of them are acting a Scout's play, sir; some are doing ConeExercises; one or two are practising deep breathing; and the rest aredancing an Old English Morris Dance."

Clarence nodded.

"They could not be better employed. Inform them that I have arrivedandwould address them."

The sentry saluted.

Standing in an attitude of deep thought, with his feet apart, hishandsclasped behind him, and his chin sunk upon his breast, Clarence made asingularly impressive picture. He had left his Essex home three weeksbefore, on the expiration of his ten days' holiday, to return to hispost of junior sub-reporter on the staff of a leading London eveningpaper. It was really only at night now that he got any time to

himself.During the day his time was his paper's, and he was compelled to spendthe weary hours reading off results of races and other sporting itemson the tape-machine. It was only at 6 p.m. that he could begin todevote himself to the service of his country.

The Scouts had assembled now, and were standing, keen and alert, readyto do Clarence's bidding.

Clarence returned their salute moodily.

"Scout-master Wagstaff," he said.

The Scout-master, the leader of the troop formed by the variouspatrols, stepped forward.

"Let the war-dance commence."

Clarence watched the evolutions absently. His heart was ill-attuned to


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dances. But the thing had to be done, so it was as well to get itover.When the last movement had been completed, he raised his hand.

"Men," he said, in his clear, penetrating alto, "although you have notthe same facilities as myself for hearing the latest news, you are

all,

by this time, doubtless aware that this England of ours lies 'neaththeproud foot of a conqueror. It is for us to save her. (Cheers, and avoice "Invooboo!") I would call on you here and now to seize yourhockey-sticks and rush upon the invader, were it not, alas! that suchan action would merely result in your destruction. At present theinvader is too strong. We must wait; and something tells me that weshall not have to wait long. (Applause.) Jealousy is beginning tospring up between the Russians and the Germans. It will be our task toaggravate this feeling. With our perfect organisation this should beeasy. Sooner or later this smouldering jealousy is going to burst intoflame. Any day now," he proceeded, warming as he spoke, "there may bethe dickens of a dust-up between these Johnnies, and then we've got

'emwhere the hair's short. See what I mean, you chaps? It's like this.

Anymoment they may start scrapping and chaw each other up, and then we'llsimply sail in and knock what's left endways."

A shout of applause went up from the assembled scouts.

"What I am anxious to impress upon you men," concluded Clarence, inmore measured tones, "is that our hour approaches. England looks tous,and it is for us to see that she does not look in vain. Sedulouslyfeeding the growing flame of animosity between the component parts ofthe invading horde, we may contrive to bring about that actualdisruption. Till that day, see to it that you prepare yourselves for

war. Men, I have finished."

"What the Chief Scout means," said Scout-master Wagstaff, "is norotting about and all that sort of rot. Jolly well keep yourselves

fit,and then, when the time comes, we'll give these Russian and Germanblighters about the biggest hiding they've ever heard of. Follow theidea? Very well, then. Mind you don't go mucking the show up."

"Een gonyama-gonyama!" shouted the new thoroughly roused troops."Invooboo! Yah bo! Yah bo! Invooboo!"

The voice of Young England--of Young England alert and at its post!

Chapter 2

AN IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT

Historians, when they come to deal with the opening years of the


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twentieth century, will probably call this the Music-Hall Age. At thetime of the great invasion the music-halls dominated England. Everytown and every suburb had its Hall, most of them more than one. Thepublic appetite for sight-seeing had to be satisfied somehow, and the

music-hall provided the easiest way of doing it. The Halls formed acommon place on which the celebrity and the ordinary man could meet.

If

an impulsive gentleman slew his grandmother with a coal-hammer, only asmall portion of the public could gaze upon his pleasing features atthe Old Bailey. To enable the rest to enjoy the intellectual treat, it

was necessary to engage him, at enormous expense, to appear at amusic-hall. There, if he happened to be acquitted, he would come onthestage, preceded by an asthmatic introducer, and beam affably at thepublic for ten minutes, speaking at intervals in a totally inaudiblevoice, and then retire; to be followed by some enterprising lady whohad endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to solve the problem of living at therate of ten thousand a year on an income of nothing, or who hadperformed some other similarly brainy feat.

It was not till the middle of September that anyone conceived what onewould have thought the obvious idea of offering music-hall engagementsto the invading generals.

The first man to think of it was Solly Quhayne, the rising youngagent.Solly was the son of Abraham Cohen, an eminent agent of the Victorianera. His brothers, Abe Kern, Benjamin Colquhoun, Jack Coyne, and

BarneyCowan had gravitated to the City; but Solly had carried on the oldbusiness, and was making a big name for himself. It was Solly who had

met Blinky Bill Mullins, the prominent sand-bagger, as he emerged fromhis twenty years' retirement at Dartmoor, and booked him solid for athirty-six months' lecturing tour on the McGinnis circuit. It was tohim, too, that Joe Brown, who could eat eight pounds of raw meat inseven and a quarter minutes, owed his first chance of displaying hisgifts to the wider public of the vaudeville stage.

The idea of securing the services of the invading generals came to himin a flash.

"S'elp me!" he cried. "I believe they'd go big; put 'em on where youlike."

Solly was a man of action. Within a minute he was talking to themanaging director of the Mammoth Syndicate Halls on the telephone. Infive minutes the managing director had agreed to pay Prince Otto ofSaxe-Pfennig five hundred pounds a week, if he could be prevailed upon

to appear. In ten minutes the Grand Duke Vodkakoff had been engaged,subject to his approval, at a weekly four hundred and fifty by theStone-Rafferty circuit. And in a quarter of an hour Solly Quhayne,having pushed his way through a mixed crowd of Tricky Serios andVersatile Comedians and Patterers who had been waiting to see him forthe last hour and a half, was bowling off in a taximeter-cab to theRussian lines at Hampstead.

General Vodkakoff received his visitor civilly, but at first withoutenthusiasm. There were, it seemed, objections to his becoming an


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artiste. Would he have to wear a properly bald head and sing songsabout wanting people to see his girl? He didn't think he could. He hadonly sung once in his life, and that was twenty years ago at abump-supper at Moscow University. And even then, he confided to Mr.Quhayne, it had taken a decanter and a-half of neat vodka to bring himup to the scratch.

The agent ridiculed the idea.

"Why, your Grand Grace," he cried, "there won't be anything of thatsort. You ain't going to be starred as a _comic_. You're a RefinedLecturer and Society Monologue Artist. 'How I Invaded England,' withlights down and the cinematograph going. We can easily fake thepictures."

The Grand Duke made another objection.

"I understand," he said, "it is etiquette for music-hall artists intheir spare time to eat--er--fried fish with their fingers. Must I dothat? I doubt if I could manage it."

Mr Quhayne once more became the human semaphore.

"S'elp me! Of course you needn't! All the leading pros, eat it with aspoon. Bless you, you can be the refined gentleman on the Halls same

asanywhere else. Come now, your Grand Grace, is it a deal? Four hundredand fifty chinking o'Goblins a week for one hall a night, andpress-agented at eight hundred and seventy-five. S'elp me! Lauderdoesn't get it, not in England."

The Grand Duke reflected. The invasion has proved more expensive thanhe had foreseen. The English are proverbially a nation of shopkeepers,and they had put up their prices in all the shops for his specialbenefit. And he was expected to do such a lot of tipping. Four hundredand fifty a week would come in uncommonly useful.

"Where do I sign?" he asked, extending his hand for the agreement.

* * * * *

Five minutes later Mr. Quhayne was urging his taxidriver to exceed thespeed-limit in the direction of Tottenham.

Chapter 3

A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF THE SITUATION

Clarence read the news of the two engagements on the tape at theofficeof his paper, but the first intimation the general public had of it

wasthrough the medium of headlines:--


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MUSIC-HALL SENSATIONINVADING GENERALS' GIGANTIC SALARIESRUMOURED RESENTMENT OF V.A.F.WHAT WILL WATER-RATS DO?INTERVIEW WITH MR. HARRY LAUDER

Clarence chuckled grimly as the tape clicked out the news. The end had

begun. To sow jealousy between the rival generals would have beeneasy.To sow it between two rival music-hall artistes would be among the

world's softest jobs.

Among the general public, of course, the announcement created aprofound sensation. Nothing else was talked about in train and

omnibus.The papers had leaders on the subject. At first the popular impression

was that the generals were going to do a comedy duo act of theWho-Was-It-I-Seen-You-Coming-Down-the-Street-With? type, and there wasdisappointment when it was found that the engagements were fordifferent halls. Rumours sprang up. It was said that the Grand Duke

hadfor years been an enthusiastic amateur sword-swallower, and had,indeed, come to England mainly for the purpose of getting bookings;that the Prince had a secure reputation in Potsdam as a singer of

songsin the George Robey style; that both were expert trick-cyclists.

Then the truth came out. Neither had any specialities; they wouldsimply appear and deliver lectures.

The feeling in the music-hall world was strong. The Variety Artists'Federation debated the advisability of another strike. The Water Rats,

meeting in mystic secrecy in a Maiden Lane public-house, passedfifteenresolutions in an hour and a quarter. Sir Harry Lauder, interviewed bythe _Era_, gave it as his opinion that both the Grand Duke and thePrince were gowks, who would do well to haud their blether. He himselfproposed to go straight to America, where genuine artists were cheeredin the streets and entertained at haggis dinners, and not forced tocompete with amateur sumphs and gonuphs from other countries.

Clarence, brooding over the situation like a Providence, was glad tosee that already the new move had weakened the invaders' power. The

dayafter the announcement in the press of the approaching _debut_ ofthe other generals, the leader of the army of Monaco had hurried to

theagents to secure an engagement for himself. He held out the special

inducement of card-tricks, at which he was highly skilled. The agentshad received him coldly. Brown and Day had asked him to call again.Foster had sent out a message regretting that he was too busy to seehim. At de Freece's he had been kept waiting in the ante-room for twohours in the midst of a bevy of Sparkling Comediennes of pronouncedperoxidity and blue-chinned men in dusty bowler-hats, who told eachother how they had gone with a bang at Oakham and John o'Groats, andhad then gone away in despair.


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On the following day, deeply offended, he had withdrawn his troopsfromthe country.

The strength of the invaders was melting away little by little.

"How long?" murmured Clarence Chugwater, as he worked at the

tape-machine. "How long?"

Chapter 4

CLARENCE HEARS IMPORTANT NEWS

It was Clarence's custom to leave the office of his newspaper at oneo'clock each day, and lunch at a neighbouring Aerated Bread shop. Hedid this on the day following the first appearance of the two generalsat their respective halls. He had brought an early edition of the

paperwith him, and in the intervals of dealing with his glass of milk andscone and butter, he read the report of the performances.

Both, it seemed, had met with flattering receptions, though they hadappeared nervous. The Russian general especially, whose style, said

thecritic, was somewhat reminiscent of Mr. T. E. Dunville, had madehimself a great favourite with the gallery. The report concluded bycalling attention once more to the fact that the salaries paid to thetwo--eight hundred and seventy-five pounds a week each--established arecord in music-hall history on this side of the Atlantic.

Clarence had just finished this when there came to his ear the faintnote of a tarantula singing to its young.

He looked up. Opposite him, at the next table, was seated a youth offifteen, of a slightly grubby aspect. He was eyeing Clarence closely.

Clarence took off his spectacles, polished them, and replaced them onhis nose. As he did so, the thin gruffle of the tarantula sounded once

more. Without changing his expression, Clarence cautiously uttered thedeep snarl of a sand-eel surprised while bathing.

It was sufficient. The other rose to his feet, holding his right handon a line with his shoulder, palm to the front, thumb resting on thenail of the little finger, and the other three fingers upright.

Clarence seized his hat by the brim at the back, and moved it swiftlytwice up and down.

The other, hesitating no longer, came over to his table.

"Pip-pip!" he said, in an undertone.

"Toodleoo and God save the King!" whispered Clarence.


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The mystic ceremony which always takes place when two Boy Scouts meetin public was complete.

"Private Biggs of the Eighteenth Tarantulas, sir," said the boyrespectfully, for he had recognised Clarence.

Clarence inclined his head.

"You may sit, Private Biggs," he said graciously. "You have news toimpart?"

"News, sir, that may be of vital importance."

"Say on."

Private Biggs, who had brought his sparkling limado and a bath-bunwith

him from the other table, took a sip of the former, and embarked uponhis narrative.

"I am employed, sir," he said, "as a sort of junior clerk andoffice-boy by Mr. Solly Quhayne, the music-hall agent."

Clarence tapped his brow thoughtfully; then his face cleared.

"I remember. It was he who secured the engagements of the generals."

"The same, sir."

"Proceed."

The other resumed his story.

"It is my duty to sit in a sort of rabbit-hutch in the outer office,take the callers' names, and especially to see that they don't getthrough to Mr. Quhayne till he wishes to receive them. That is the

mostexacting part of my day's work. You wouldn't believe how full of thepurest swank some of these pros. are. Tell you they've got anappointment as soon as look at you. Artful beggars!"

Clarence nodded sympathetically.

"This morning an Acrobat and Society Contortionist made such a fussthat in the end I had to take his card in to the private office. Mr.Quhayne was there talking to a gentleman whom I recognised as hisbrother, Mr. Colquhoun. They were engrossed in their conversation, anddid not notice me for a moment. With no wish to play the eavesdropper,

I could not help but overhear. They were talking about the generals.'Yes, I know they're press-agented at eight seventy-five, dear boy,' Iheard Mr. Quhayne say, 'but between you and me and the door-knob thatisn't what they're getting. The German feller's drawing five hundred

ofthe best, but I could only get four-fifty for the Russian. Can't say

why. I should have thought, if anything, he'd be the bigger draw. Bitof a comic in his way!' And then he saw me. There was some slightunpleasantness. In fact, I've got the sack. After it was over I came


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away to try and find you. It seemed to me that the information mightbeof importance."

Clarence's eyes gleamed.

"You have done splendidly, Private--no, _Corporal_ Biggs. Do not

regret your lost position. The society shall find you work. This newsyou have brought is of the utmost--the most vital importance. Dash

it!"he cried, unbending in his enthusiasm, "we've got 'em on the hop. Ifthey aren't biting pieces out of each other in the next day or two,

I'mjolly well mistaken."

He rose; then sat down again.

"Corporal--no, dash it, Sergeant Biggs--you must have something withme. This is an occasion. The news you have brought me may mean thesalvation of England. What would you like?"

The other saluted joyfully.

"I think I'll have another sparkling limado, thanks, awfully," hesaid.

The beverage arrived. They raised their glasses.

"To England," said Clarence simply.

"To England," echoed his subordinate.

* * * * *

Clarence left the shop with swift strides, and hurried, deep inthought, to the offices of the _Encore_ in Wellington Street.

"Yus?" said the office-boy interrogatively.

Clarence gave the Scout's Siquand, the pass-word. The boy's demeanourchanged instantly. He saluted with the utmost respect.

"I wish to see the Editor," said Clarence.

A short speech, but one that meant salvation for the motherland.

Chapter 5

SEEDS OF DISCORD

The days following Clarence's visit to the offices of the _Encore_were marked by a growing feeling of unrest, alike among invaded andinvaders. The first novelty and excitement of the foreign occupation

of


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the country was beginning to wear off, and in its place the sturdyindependence so typical of the British character was reassertingitself. Deep down in his heart the genuine Englishman has a ruggeddistaste for seeing his country invaded by a foreign army. People wereasking themselves by what right these aliens had overrun British soil.

An ever-growing feeling of annoyance had begun to lay hold of thenation.

It is probable that the departure of Sir Harry Lauder first broughthome to England what this invasion might mean. The great comedian, inhis manifesto in the _Times_, had not minced his words. Plainlyand crisply he had stated that he was leaving the country because the

music-hall stage was given over to alien gowks. He was sorry forEngland. He liked England. But now, all he could say was, "God blessyou." England shuddered, remembering that last time he had said, "Godbless you till I come back."

Ominous mutterings began to make themselves heard.

Other causes contributed to swell the discontent. A regiment ofRussians, out route-marching, had walked across the bowling-screen atKennington Oval during the Surrey _v._ Lancashire match, causingHayward to be bowled for a duck's-egg. A band of German sappers had

duga trench right across the turf at Queen's Club.

The mutterings increased.

Nor were the invaders satisfied and happy. The late English summer hadset in with all its usual severity, and the Cossacks, reared in thekindlier climate of Siberia, were feeling it terribly. Colds were therule rather than the exception in the Russian lines. The coughing ofthe Germans at Tottenham could be heard in Oxford Street.

The attitude of the British public, too, was getting on their nerves.They had been prepared for fierce resistance. They had pictured theinvasion as a series of brisk battles--painful perhaps, but exciting.They had anticipated that when they had conquered the country they

might meet with the Glare of Hatred as they patrolled the streets. TheSupercilious Stare unnerved them. There is nothing so terrible to thehighly-strung foreigner as the cold, contemptuous, patronising gaze ofthe Englishman. It gave the invaders a perpetual feeling of doing the

wrong thing. They felt like men who had been found travelling in afirst-class carriage with a third-class ticket. They became consciousof the size of their hands and feet. As they marched through theMetropolis they felt their ears growing hot and red. Beneath the

chillystare of the populace they experienced all the sensations of a man who

has come to a strange dinner-party in a tweed suit when everybody elsehas dressed. They felt warm and prickly.

It was dull for them, too. London is never at its best in earlySeptember, even for the _habitue_. There was nothing to do. Mostof the theatres were shut. The streets were damp and dirty. It was allvery well for the generals, appearing every night in the glare andglitter of the footlights; but for the rank and file the occupation ofLondon spelt pure boredom.


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London was, in fact, a human powder-magazine. And it was ClarenceChugwater who with a firm hand applied the match that was to set it ina blaze.

Chapter 6

THE BOMB-SHELL

Clarence had called at the offices of the _Encore_ on a Friday.The paper's publishing day is Thursday. The _Encore_ is the Timesof the music-hall world. It casts its curses here, bestows itsbenedictions (sparely) there. The _Encore_ criticising the latestaction of the Variety Artists' Federation is the nearest modernapproach to Jove hurling the thunderbolt. Its motto is, "Cry havoc,

andlet loose the performing dogs of war."

It so happened that on the Thursday following his momentous visit toWellington Street, there was need of someone on the staff of

Clarence'sevening paper to go and obtain an interview from the Russian general.Mr. Hubert Wales had just published a novel so fruity in theme andtreatment that it had been publicly denounced from the pulpit by noless a person than the Rev. Canon Edgar Sheppard, D.D., Sub-Deanof His Majesty's Chapels Royal, Deputy Clerk of the Closet andSub-Almoner to the King. A morning paper had started the question,"Should there be a Censor of Fiction?" and, in accordance with custom,editors were collecting the views of celebrities, preferably of those

whose opinion on the subject was absolutely valueless.

All the other reporters being away on their duties, the editor was ataloss.

"Isn't there anybody else?" he demanded.

The chief sub-editor pondered.

"There is young blooming Chugwater," he said.

(It was thus that England's deliverer was habitually spoken of in theoffice.)

"Then send him," said the editor.

* * * * *

Grand Duke Vodkakoff's turn at the Magnum Palace of Varieties startedevery evening at ten sharp. He topped the bill. Clarence, having beendetained by a review of the Scouts, did not reach the hall till five

minutes to the hour. He got to the dressing-room as the general wasgoing on to the stage.

The Grand Duke dressed in the large room with the other male turns.


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There were no private dressing-rooms at the Magnum. Clarence sat downon a basket-trunk belonging to the Premier Troupe of Bounding Zouavesof the Desert, and waited. The four athletic young gentlemen whocomposed the troupe were dressing after their turn. They took no

noticeof Clarence.

Presently one Zouave spoke.

"Bit off to-night, Bill. Cold house."

"Not 'arf," replied his colleague. "Gave me the shivers."

"Wonder how his nibs'll go."

Evidently he referred to the Grand Duke.

"Oh, _'e's_ all right. They eat his sort of swank. Seems to me theprofession's going to the dogs, what with these bloomin' amytoors an'all. Got the 'airbrush, 'Arry?"

Harry, a tall, silent Zouave, handed over the hairbrush.

Bill continued.

"I'd like to see him go on of a Monday night at the old Mogul. They'dsoon show him. It gives me the fair 'ump, it does, these toffs comingin and taking the bread out of our mouths. Why can't he give us chaps

achance? Fair makes me rasp, him and his bloomin' eight hundred andseventy-five o' goblins a week."

"Not so much of your eight hundred and seventy-five, young feller melad," said the Zouave who had spoken first. "Ain't you seen the ragthis week?"

"Naow. What's in it? How does our advert, look?"

"Ow, that's all right, never mind that. You look at 'What the_Encore_ Would Like to Know.' That's what'll touch his nibs up."

He produced a copy of the paper from the pocket of his great-coatwhich

hung from the door, and passed it to his bounding brother.

"Read it out, old sort," he said.

The other took it to the light and began to read slowly and

cautiously,as one who is no expert at the art.

"'What the _Encore_ would like to know:--Whether Prince Otto ofSaxe-Pfennig didn't go particularly big at the Lobelia last week? AndWhether his success hasn't compelled Agent Quhayne to purchase alarger-sized hat? And Whether it isn't a fact that, though they arepress-agented at the same figure, Prince Otto is getting fifty a week

more than Grand Duke Vodkakoff? And If it is not so, why a little birdhas assured us that the Prince is being paid five hundred a week and


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the Grand Duke only four hundred and fifty? And, In any case, whetherthe Prince isn't worth fifty a week more than his Russian friend?'Lumme!"

An awed silence fell upon the group. To Clarence, who had dictated thematter (though the style was the editor's), the paragraph did not comeas a surprise. His only feeling was one of relief that the editor had

served up his material so well. He felt that he had been justified inleaving the more delicate literary work to that master-hand.

"That'll be one in the eye," said the Zouave Harry. "'Ere, I'll stickit up opposite of him when he comes back to dress. Got a pin and apencil, some of you?"

He marked the quarter column heavily, and pinned it up beside thelooking-glass. Then he turned to his companions.

"'Ow about not waiting, chaps?" he suggested. "I shouldn't 'arfwonder,

from the look of him, if he wasn't the 'aughty kind of a feller who'dcleave you to the bazooka for tuppence with his bloomin' falchion. I'mgoin' to 'urry through with my dressing and wait till to-morrow nightto see how he looks. No risks for Willie!"

The suggestion seemed thoughtful and good. The Bounding Zouaves, withone accord, bounded into their clothes and disappeared through the

doorjust as a long-drawn chord from the invisible orchestra announced theconclusion of the Grand Duke's turn.

General Vodkakoff strutted into the room, listening complacently totheapplause which was still going on. He had gone well. He felt pleased

with himself.

It was not for a moment that he noticed Clarence.

"Ah," he said, "the interviewer, eh? You wish to--"

Clarence began to explain his mission. While he was doing so the GrandDuke strolled to the basin and began to remove his make-up. Hefavoured, when on the stage, a touch of the Raven Gipsy No. 3grease-paint. It added a picturesque swarthiness to his appearance,

andmade him look more like what he felt to be the popular ideal of aRussian general.

The looking-glass hung just over the basin.

Clarence, watching him in the glass, saw him start as he read thefirstparagraph. A dark flush, almost rivalling the Raven Gipsy No. 3,

spreadover his face. He trembled with rage.

"Who put that paper there?" he roared, turning.

"With reference, then, to Mr. Hubert Wales's novel," said Clarence.


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The Grand Duke cursed Mr. Hubert Wales, his novel, and Clarence in onesentence.

"You may possibly," continued Clarence, sticking to his point like agood interviewer, "have read the trenchant, but some say justifiableremarks of the Rev. Canon Edgar Sheppard, D.D., Sub-Dean of His

Majesty's Chapels Royal, Deputy Clerk of the Closet, and Sub-Almonertothe King."

The Grand Duke swiftly added that eminent cleric to the list.

"Did you put that paper on this looking-glass?" he shouted.

"I did not put that paper on that looking-glass," replied Clarenceprecisely.

"Ah," said the Grand Duke, "if you had, I'd have come and wrung yourneck like a chicken, and scattered you to the four corners of thisdressing-room."

"I'm glad I didn't," said Clarence.

"Have you read this paper on the looking-glass?"

"I have not read that paper on the looking-glass," replied Clarence,whose chief fault as a conversationalist was that he was perhaps ashade too Ollendorfian. "But I know its contents."

"It's a lie!" roared the Grand Duke. "An infamous lie! I've a goodmind

to have him up for libel. I know very well he got them to put thoseparagraphs in, if he didn't write them himself."

"Professional jealousy," said Clarence, with a sigh, "is a very sadthing."

"I'll professional jealousy him!"

"I hear," said Clarence casually, "that he _has_ been going verywell at the Lobelia. A friend of mine who was there last night told mehe took eleven calls."

For a moment the Russian General's face swelled apoplectically. Thenherecovered himself with a tremendous effort.

"Wait!" he said, with awful calm. "Wait till to-morrow night! I'llshowhim! Went very well, did he? Ha! Took eleven calls, did he? Oh, ha,

ha!And he'll take them to-morrow night, too! Only"--and here his voicetook on a note of fiendish purpose so terrible that, hardened scout ashe was, Clarence felt his flesh creep--"only this time they'll becatcalls!"

And, with a shout of almost maniac laughter, the jealous artiste flung


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himself into a chair, and began to pull off his boots.

Clarence silently withdrew. The hour was very near.

Chapter 7

THE BIRD

The Grand Duke Vodkakoff was not the man to let the grass grow underhis feet. He was no lobster, no flat-fish. He did it now--swift,secret, deadly--a typical Muscovite. By midnight his staff had theirorders.

Those orders were for the stalls at the Lobelia.

Price of entrance to the gallery and pit was served out at daybreak tothe Eighth and Fifteenth Cossacks of the Don, those fierce,semi-civilised fighting-machines who know no fear.

Grand Duke Vodkakoff's preparations were ready.

* * * * *

Few more fortunate events have occurred in the history of Englishliterature than the quite accidental visit of Mr. Bart Kennedy to theLobelia on that historic night. He happened to turn in there casuallyafter dinner, and was thus enabled to see the whole thing from start

tofinish. At a quarter to eleven a wild-eyed man charged in at the mainentrance of Carmelite House, and, too impatient to use the lift,

dashedup the stairs, shouting for pens, ink and paper.

Next morning the _Daily Mail_ was one riot of headlines. The wholeof page five was given up to the topic. The headlines were not

elusive.They flung the facts at the reader:--

SCENE AT THE LOBELIAPRINCE OTTO OF SAXE-PFENNIGGIVEN THE BIRD BYRUSSIAN SOLDIERSWHAT WILL BE THE OUTCOME?

There were about seventeen more, and then came Mr. Bart Kennedy'sspecial report.

He wrote as follows:--

"A night to remember. A marvellous night. A night such as few will seeagain. A night of fear and wonder. The night of September the

eleventh.Last night.


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"Nine-thirty. I had dined. I had eaten my dinner. My dinner! Soinextricably are the prose and romance of life blended. My dinner! Ihad eaten my dinner on this night. This wonderful night. This night ofSeptember the eleventh. Last night!

"I had dined at the club. A chop. A boiled potato. Mushrooms on toast.A touch of Stilton. Half-a-bottle of Beaune. I lay back in my chair. I

debated within myself. A Hall? A theatre? A book in the library? Thatnight, the night of September the eleventh, I as near as a toucherspent in the library of my club with a book. That night! The night ofSeptember the eleventh. Last night!

"Fate took me to the Lobelia. Fate! We are its toys. Its footballs. Weare the footballs of Fate. Fate might have sent me to the Gaiety. Fatetook me to the Lobelia. This Fate which rules us.

"I sent in my card to the manager. He let me through. Ever courteous.He let me through on my face. This manager. This genial and courteous

manager.

"I was in the Lobelia. A dead-head. I was in the Lobelia as adead-head!"

Here, in the original draft of the article, there are reflections, atsome length, on the interior decorations of the Hall, and an excursuson music-hall performances in general. It is not till he comes toexamine the audience that Mr. Kennedy returns to the main issue.

"And what manner of audience was it that had gathered together to viewthe entertainment provided by the genial and courteous manager of theLobelia? The audience. Beyond whom there is no appeal. The Caesars ofthe music-hall. The audience."

At this point the author has a few extremely interesting andthoughtfulremarks on the subject of audiences. These may be omitted. "In thestalls I noted a solid body of Russian officers. These soldiers fromthe Steppes. These bearded men. These Russians. They sat silent and

watchful. They applauded little. The programme left them cold. TheTrick Cyclist. The Dashing Soubrette and Idol of Belgravia. The

Argumentative College Chums. The Swell Comedian. The Man with thePerforming Canaries. None of these could rouse them. They were

waiting.Waiting. Waiting tensely. Every muscle taut. Husbanding their

strength.Waiting. For what?

"A man at my side told a friend that a fellow had told him that he had

been told by a commissionaire that the pit and gallery were full ofRussians. Russians. Russians everywhere. Why? Were they genuinepatronsof the Halls? Or were they there from some ulterior motive? There wasan air of suspense. We were all waiting. Waiting. For what?

"The atmosphere is summed up in a word. One word. Sinister. Theatmosphere was sinister.

"AA! A stir in the crowded house. The ruffling of the face of the sea


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before a storm. The Sisters Sigsbee, Coon Delineators and UnrivalledBurlesque Artists, have finished their dance, smiled, blown kisses,skipped off, skipped on again, smiled, blown more kisses, anddisappeared. A long chord from the orchestra. A chord that is almost a

wail. A wail of regret for that which is past. Two liveried menialsappear. They carry sheets of cardboard. These menials carry sheets ofcardboard. But not blank sheets. On each sheet is a number.

"The number 15.

"Who is number 15?

"Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig. Prince Otto, General of the German Army.Prince Otto is Number 15.

"A burst of applause from the house. But not from the Russians. Theyare silent. They are waiting. For what?

"The orchestra plays a lively air. The massive curtains part. A tall,handsome military figure strides on to the stage. He bows. This tall,handsome, military man bows. He is Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig,

Generalof the Army of Germany. One of our conquerors.

"He begins to speak. 'Ladies and gentlemen.' This man, this general,says, 'Ladies and gentlemen.'

"But no more. No more. No more. Nothing more. No more. He says,'Ladiesand Gentlemen,' but no more.

"And why does he say no more? Has he finished his turn? Is that all hedoes? Are his eight hundred and seventy-five pounds a week paid him

forsaying, 'Ladies and Gentlemen'?

"No!

"He would say more. He has more to say. This is only the beginning.This tall, handsome man has all his music still within him.

"Why, then, does he say no more? Why does he say 'Ladies andGentlemen,' but no more? No more. Only that. No more. Nothing more. No

more.

"Because from the stalls a solid, vast, crushing 'Boo!' is hurled athim. From the Russians in the stalls comes this vast, crushing 'Boo!'It is for this that they have been waiting. It is for this that they

have been waiting so tensely. For this. They have been waiting forthiscolossal 'Boo!'

"The General retreats a step. He is amazed. Startled. Perhapsfrightened. He waves his hands.

"From gallery and pit comes a hideous whistling and howling. The noiseof wild beasts. The noise of exploding boilers. The noise of a

music-hall audience giving a performer the bird.


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"Everyone is standing on his feet. Some on mine. Everyone is shouting.This vast audience is shouting.

"Words begin to emerge from the babel.

"'Get offski! Rotten turnovitch!' These bearded Russians, these stern

critics, shout, 'Rotten turnovitch!'

"Fire shoots from the eyes of the German. This strong man's eyes.

"'Get offski! Swankietoff! Rotten turnovitch!'

"The fury of this audience is terrible. This audience. This last courtof appeal. This audience in its fury is terrible.

"What will happen? The German stands his ground. This man of blood andiron stands his ground. He means to go on. This strong man. He means

togo on if it snows.

"The audience is pulling up the benches. A tomato shatters itself onthe Prince's right eye. An over-ripe tomato.

"'Get offski!' Three eggs and a cat sail through the air. Fallingshort, they drop on to the orchestra. These eggs! This cat! They fallon the conductor and the second trombone. They fall like the gentle

dewfrom Heaven upon the place beneath. That cat! Those eggs!

"AA! At last the stage-manager--keen, alert, resourceful--saves thesituation. This man. This stage-manager. This man with the big brain.Slowly, inevitably, the fireproof curtain falls. It is half-way down.It is down. Before it, the audience. The audience. Behind it, thePrince. The Prince. That general. That man of iron. That performer whohas just got the bird.

"The Russian National Anthem rings through the hall. Thunderous!Triumphant! The Russian National Anthem. A paean of joy.

"The menials reappear. Those calm, passionless menials. They removethenumber fifteen. They insert the number sixteen. They are like Destiny-

-Pitiless, Unmoved, Purposeful, Silent. Those menials.

"A crash from the orchestra. Turn number sixteen has begun...."

Chapter 8

THE MEETING AT THE SCOTCH STORES

Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig stood in the wings, shaking in every limb.German oaths of indescribable vigour poured from his lips. In a group


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some feet away stood six muscular, short-sleeved stage-hands. It wasthey who had flung themselves on the general at the fall of the ironcurtain and prevented him dashing round to attack the stalls with hissabre. At a sign from the stage-manager they were ready to do it

again.

The stage-manager was endeavouring to administer balm.

"Bless you, your Highness," he was saying, "it's nothing. It's whathappens to everyone some time. Ask any of the top-notch pros. Ask 'em

whether they never got the bird when they were starting. Why, even nowsome of the biggest stars can't go to some towns because they alwayscop it there. Bless you, it----"

A stage-hand came up with a piece of paper in his hand.

"Young feller in spectacles and a rum sort o' suit give me this foryour 'Ighness."

The Prince snatched it from his hand.

The note was written in a round, boyish hand. It was signed, "AFriend." It ran:--"The men who booed you to-night were sent for thatpurpose by General Vodkakoff, who is jealous of you because of theparagraphs in the _Encore_ this week."

Prince Otto became suddenly calm.

"Excuse me, your Highness," said the stage-manager anxiously, as hemoved, "you can't go round to the front. Stand by, Bill."

"Right, sir!" said the stage-hands.

Prince Otto smiled pleasantly.

"There is no danger. I do not intend to go to the front. I am going tolook in at the Scotch Stores for a moment."

"Oh, in that case, your Highness, good-night, your Highness! Betterluck to-morrow, your Highness!"

* * * * *

It had been the custom of the two generals, since they had joined themusic-hall profession, to go, after their turn, to the Scotch Stores,where they stood talking and blocking the gangway, as etiquettedemandsthat a successful artiste shall.

The Prince had little doubt but that he would find Vodkakoff thereto-night.

He was right. The Russian general was there, chatting affably acrossthe counter about the weather.

He nodded at the Prince with a well-assumed carelessness.

"Go well to-night?" he inquired casually.


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Prince Otto clenched his fists; but he had had a rigorously diplomaticup-bringing, and knew how to keep a hold on himself. When he spoke it

was in the familiar language of diplomacy.

"The rain has stopped," he said, "but the pavements are still wetunderfoot. Has your grace taken the precaution to come out in a good

stout pair of boots?"

The shaft plainly went home, but the Grand Duke's manner, as hereplied, was unruffled.

"Rain," he said, sipping his vermouth, "is always wet; but sometimesitis cold as well."

"But it never falls upwards," said the Prince, pointedly.

"Rarely, I understand. Your powers of observation are keen, my dearPrince."

There was a silence; then the Prince, momentarily baffled, returned tothe attack.

"The quickest way to get from Charing Cross to Hammersmith Broadway,"he said, "is to go by Underground."

"Men have died in Hammersmith Broadway," replied the Grand Dukesuavely.

The Prince gritted his teeth. He was no match for his slipperyadversary in a diplomatic dialogue, and he knew it.

"The sun rises in the East," he cried, half-choking, "but it sets--itsets!"

"So does a hen," was the cynical reply.

The last remnants of the Prince's self-control were slipping away.Thiselusive, diplomatic conversation is a terrible strain if one is not inthe mood for it. Its proper setting is the gay, glittering ball-room

atsome frivolous court. To a man who has just got the bird at a

music-hall, and who is trying to induce another man to confess thatthething was his doing, it is little short of maddening.

"Hen!" he echoed, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Have youstudied the habits of hens?"

The truth seemed very near to him now, but the master-diplomat beforehim was used to extracting himself from awkward corners.

"Pullets with a southern exposure," he drawled, "have yellow legs andripen quickest."

The Prince was nonplussed. He had no answer.


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The Russian bowed.

"So be it," said the Prince, turning to the door. "I have the honourtowish you a very good night."

"The same to you," said the Grand Duke. "Mind the step."

Chapter 9

THE GREAT BATTLE

The news that an open rupture had occurred between the Generals of thetwo invading armies was not slow in circulating. The early editions ofthe evening papers were full of it. A symposium of the opinions of Dr.Emil Reich, Dr. Saleeby, Sandow, Mr. Chiozza Money, and Lady Grove washastily collected. Young men with knobbly and bulging foreheads wereturned on by their editors to write character-sketches of the twogenerals. All was stir and activity.

Meanwhile, those who look after London's public amusements were busywith telephone and telegraph. The quarrel had taken place on Fridaynight. It was probable that, unless steps were taken, the battle wouldbegin early on Saturday. Which, it did not require a man of unusualintelligence to see, would mean a heavy financial loss to those whosupplied London with its Saturday afternoon amusements. The matinees

would suffer. The battle might not affect the stalls and dress-circle,perhaps, but there could be no possible doubt that the pit and galleryreceipts would fall off terribly. To the public which supports the pitand gallery of a theatre there is an irresistible attraction about afight on anything like a large scale. When one considers that a quiteordinary street-fight will attract hundreds of spectators, it will beplainly seen that no theatrical entertainment could hope to competeagainst so strong a counter-attraction as a battle between the Germanand Russian armies.

The various football-grounds would be heavily hit, too. And there wasto be a monster roller-skating carnival at Olympia. That also would bespoiled.

A deputation of amusement-caterers hurried to the two camps within anhour of the appearance of the first evening paper. They put their caseplainly and well. The Generals were obviously impressed. Messagespassed and repassed between the two armies, and in the end it was

decided to put off the outbreak of hostilities till Monday morning.

* * * * *

Satisfactory as this undoubtedly was for the theatre-managers anddirectors of football clubs, it was in some ways a pity. From thestandpoint of the historian it spoiled the whole affair. But for thepostponement, readers of this history might--nay, would--have been

ableto absorb a vivid and masterly account of the great struggle, with a


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careful description of the tactics by which victory was achieved. Theywould have been told the disposition of the various regiments, thestratagems, the dashing advances, the skilful retreats, and the

Lessonsof the War.

As it is, owing to the mistaken good-nature of the rival generals, the

date of the fixture was changed, and practically all that a historiancan do is to record the result.

A slight mist had risen as early as four o'clock on Saturday. Bynight-fall the atmosphere was a little dense, but the lamp-posts werestill clearly visible at a distance of some feet, and nobody,accustomed to living in London, would have noticed anything much out

ofthe common. It was not till Sunday morning that the fog proper reallybegan.

London awoke on Sunday to find the world blanketed in the densest,yellowest London particular that had been experienced for years. It

wasthe sort of day when the City clerk has the exhilarating certainty

thatat last he has an excuse for lateness which cannot possibly be

receivedwith harsh disbelief. People spent the day indoors and hoped it wouldclear up by tomorrow.

"They can't possibly fight if it's like this," they told each other.

But on the Monday morning the fog was, if possible, denser. It wrappedLondon about as with a garment. People shook their heads.

"They'll have to put it off," they were saying, when of asudden--_Boom!_ And, again, _Boom!_

It was the sound of heavy guns.

The battle had begun!

* * * * *

One does not wish to grumble or make a fuss, but still it does seem alittle hard that a battle of such importance, a battle so outstandingin the history of the world, should have been fought under suchconditions. London at that moment was richer than ever before indescriptive reporters. It was the age of descriptive reporters, ofvivid pen-pictures. In every newspaper office there were men who could

have hauled up their slacks about that battle in a way that would havemade a Y.M.C.A. lecturer want to get at somebody with a bayonet; menwho could have handed out the adjectives and exclamation-marks tillyoualmost heard the roar of the guns. And there they were--idle,supine--like careened battleships. They were helpless. Bart Kennedy

didstart an article which began, "Fog. Black fog. And the roar of guns.Two nations fighting in the fog," but it never came to anything. It

was


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promising for a while, but it died of inanition in the middle of thesecond stick.

It was hard.

The lot of the actual war-correspondents was still worse. It wasuseless for them to explain that th

the swoop! or how clarence saved england by p. g. wodehouse

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